


Lost And Found Light

by Infini



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Character Study, Deep Space Drabbles, Domestic Disputes, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Excessive Drinking, GAY Robots In Space, Gen, Guilt, I'm Sorry, Intoxication, Mentions of Murder, Minor Medical Procedures, More angst, People Watching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ridiculous Flirting, Scapegoats, Slavery, Temper Tantrums, Therapy, oneshots, robots in space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infini/pseuds/Infini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Multiple drabbles and oneshots; somewhat interconnected, mostly chronologically ordered, starring the crew of More Than Meets The Eye's spacefaring vessel.</p><p> </p><p>Tags will be added to, and ratings may go up, as updates progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I wonder what happened to give me the right_  
>  _To step on a platform and pick up a mic_  
>  _And tell you the way to be living your life_  
>  _'Cause all my credentials are lies_  
>  \- Icon For Hire, "Up In Flames"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Rodimus; sleeplessness; nightmares; flashbacks; the author's attempt at making sense of Rodimus' personality shift

Some nights, he couldn’t recharge.  Some nights, he couldn’t recharge well.  He would hear things, see things, feel things that threw him back to the world of the wakeful, leaving him unable to return to his slab and plug the cable in for another try.

Some nights, he’d stare out the window at the stars, until the lights in his hab suite began to brighten.  Some nights, he’d go to his desk and grab a scalpel, or a can of paint, or even a datapad with touch sensitivity.  Everything was a blank canvas, so he could spill out the contents of his dreams.  If he could force them into the real world, they wouldn’t lurk in his mind, under his plating, against his senses.

He wouldn’t smell the acrid smoke.  He wouldn’t hear the heavy, repetitive thudding of concussive blasts.  He wouldn’t flinch against the surges of heated air threatening to peel his paint.  He wouldn’t feel the weight of a detonator in his hand.

Some nights, Rodimus could hardly see past the flames.

Nyon was burning again.


	2. Up In Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Rodimus; Ultra Magnus; overinflated egos; a distinct lack of people skills; more emotional depth than anticipated

“What do you see, when you look at me?”

There were very few occasions in Rodimus’ office when Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, was not standing at attention and watching the captain do something or other.  At this particular moment, it was watching him swing his pedes off his desk, grinning as though he’d just told a joke.

Magnus’ eyebrows arched incrementally upward.

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“Exactly what I said.” Rodimus kept his smile in place, spreading both arms in wide arcs before placing each hand on his chest.  For added emphasis, he rocked backward in his chair.  “Right here, right now.  Who am I?  What am I?  What do I represent?  Lay it out for me.”

A great deal of words ran through the second in command’s mind, and he suspected none of them were what the captain wanted to hear.

“I believe Drift would be better suited to answering that sort of abstruse question,” he replied.

He felt the response had been rather diplomatic, but the expression that flickered across Rodimus’ face suggested otherwise.  He’d never been very good at subtlety; it wasn’t a skill that went along with being Ultra Magnus.  In millions of years of war, he had rarely needed it…  But there was a first time for everything. 

“I know what Drift thinks.”

The captain pushed his chair back and got up, stretching both arms toward the ceiling as he crossed the room to stand in front of one large window.

“I want to hear what you think.”

Chrome-piped arms folded behind their owner’s back, and it suddenly, inexplicably occurred to Magnus that being unable to act subtly might also hamper his ability to detect such behaviour in others.  The former Decepticon’s opinion was the one Rodimus so frequently demanded, regardless of how worthless it might be in the given situation; to have the reverse suddenly presented made him certain that something beyond the obvious was at play.  He didn’t know what it was.  Did he have the tools, the ability, to solve this mystery without revealing his own ignorance?

Ranking officer though he might be, the captain tended to pounce upon these things with aggravating immaturity, and the crew wasn’t any better.  He needed some way to gain more information, without exposure.  Subtlety…

“What do _you_ see?”

It would never show externally, but Ultra Magnus felt quite pleased with his ingenuity.  Rodimus was always willing to share his opinion, and finding out what he thought might give some indication as to the real reason behind this abstract line of inquiry.

But the question didn’t have its anticipated effect.  Instead of jumping on the opportunity to express himself, the captain grew tense for a moment, before uncrossing his arms and pressing both hands onto the window’s edge.  Despite his location on the other side of the desk, Ultra Magnus could see the sudden intensity in Rodimus’ reflected face.  The answer came several seconds past his normal limit for remaining silent, with his voice was so low that the sound of distant engines almost overpowered it.

“ _Hot Rod_ …”


	3. Patches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Rung; First Aid; Cosmos; Whirl; Ratchet; accidental injury; eye damage; references to past violence, murder, and hostage situations

“Each digit, one at a time- very good.  And now, back in the other direction…  Excellent!  That’s everything.”

“Thank you,” Rung replied, flexing his right hand a few extra times, for good measure.  It felt very good to see his thumb back in place…  The repair wasn’t as important as having his head rebuilt, but certainly less complicated.  He hadn’t been in any fit state to appreciate the extensive rebuilding, at the time, so he made sure to thank the medics as often as possible now.

“I’m glad to see there aren’t any long-term effects of leaving the connections inactive for this long.” First Aid had his back turned to his patient, shuffling through a stack of datapads on a nearby table.  “It was a concern, but overtaxing your brain module while it was still recovering would have had far more serious consequences.”

“Of course.”

It was good that First Aid didn’t seem to be holding any sort of grudge toward him.  Rung knew that the psychological report he’d given the staff at Delphi hadn’t been glowing, though it was only after Ratchet and the others had returned from visiting Messantine that he learned First Aid had been demoted because of it.  But from what he’d seen during these frequent checkups, many of the issues remarked upon had decreased, both in frequency and intensity.  Most notably, the previous obsession with badges now merited little more than a second glance.  The Lost Light wasn’t exactly a low-stress environment, but after learning about what the medical staff had been dealing with… it was a wonder that both he and Ambulon seemed as well-adjusted as they were.

The therapist still hadn’t had an official session with First Aid, but it was educational to see him in his ‘home’ environment.

He’d been about to raise the subject when, of course, a commotion outside the medbay interrupted.  It wasn’t as much the noise, but the heavy sound of approaching footsteps that drew all optics toward the door; they didn’t need to wait for the mech responsible to come inside, because Cosmos was visible from some distance away.

Less visible was the blue mech he was half-guiding and half-carrying.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated, one hand wrapped most of the way around Whirl’s torso.  “I really am.  I’m so sorry-”

For his part, the heliframe was laughing uproariously.

“Oh dear,” murmured First Aid, scarcely loud enough to be heard over the noise.  He put down the datapads and rushed over to help Ratchet, who had grabbed hold of the apparent patient and was hauling him across the room.  Fortunately, Whirl seemed too amused to raise much of a fuss.

Cosmos, fortunately or unfortunately, was too large to easily fit through the medbay door.  Between his size and the configuration of the room, he would have taken up too much space to allow the medical staff to move around.  This left him standing in the hall, twisting his hands together and looking so woefully morose that Rung slid from the berth he’d been seated on, and walked out to stand beside him.

“Would you tell me what happened?”

The voice near his knee drew the spacefarer’s attention, and he reset his optics before replying.

“The captain asked me to scout ahead, to find a suitable path through the upcoming asteroid field.  Whirl was up on the deck when I came in to land, but I didn’t activate my magnaclamps in time…”

Much the same story was being told to the medics on the other side of the doorway, although in far more colourful terms.

“You should’ve seen it!  If you’d told me ‘hey, Cosmos can bounce’, I would’ve bet you real credits that you were lying… but now I’ve born witness with my own eye, and let me tell you, it’s spectacular!”

“Your optical glass is cracked,” Ratchet announced, as much to his assistant as to Whirl himself.  It wasn’t as though the heliframe wouldn’t have noticed.

“Yeah, and you know what?  It was worth it.”  Enthusiastic gesturing had given way to quieter giggles, not that it made the medics’ jobs any easier.  “Hey, why is it that since I’ve only got one, you don’t make it double-thick?  I deserve the same amount as everyone else!”

Beside the therapist, Cosmos shifted uneasily.  He was still nervous, although whether it was because he was worried about Whirl, or worried about himself, was less easily detected.  The space-capable mech was an unusual frame, and a unique individual: spacefarers were rare even in the Golden Age, and since the war began, their numbers had been steadily declining.  The combination resulted in those few who remained being both incredibly useful, and incredibly isolated.  The Autobots relied on Cosmos’ abilities to travel between planets and stellar systems, transmitting messages and searching for valuable resources… but he had to do so alone, because there was simply no one who could go with him.

That inherent loneliness left the bulky mech very eager to please, when he found company, to the point where he couldn’t bear to have anyone displeased with him.  It didn’t matter who Whirl was, what he’d done, or whether he might give two bolts about Cosmos.

“I don’t believe he’s upset with you.”  Rung patted one very large hand, both as a gesture of comfort, and also because it would have been awkward for him to attempt reaching much higher.  “Whirl has a very high tolerance for these things.  He’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

The large golden face stared down at him, as though seeing the diminutive orange mech for the first time.

“Thank you… ah…”

“Rung.  I’m the ship’s therapist.”

“Nice to meet you,” offered Cosmos, and Rung didn’t correct him.

“If you ever need someone to speak to, my office is always open.”  It was a line he offered so often that by now, it was practically rote.  “It’s quite easy to find; ten floors below the bridge-”

Cosmos yelped, which startled them both.

“The bridge!”  Massive hands clasped into equally massive fists, and he turned away down the hall.  “I have to give my report to the captain!”

He dashed off, shaking the corridor as he went.  Rung watched him go, but was surprised to see that green frame stop and glance back over one shoulder, raising a hand in his direction before turning the corner.  Such a simple gesture, but it left a smile on his face nonetheless.

It was only a few minutes before the medics moved away from Whirl’s frame and off to find a suitable replacement for his optic.  It was easier said than done, since as the only empurata victim on board the Lost Light, his parameters were outside what was generally kept on hand.  Ratchet was muttering something about manufacturing a new lens using a glass from Swerve’s bar when Rung stepped back into the medbay, making his way between the tables and berths.  He didn’t move particularly quietly, and the singular optic turned to stare at him when he approached.

“Hello, Whirl.”

“Heya, doctor feelsbad.”  If Whirl had possessed a mouth, the therapist imagined it would have fallen into a rather lopsided grin.  “Come to take advantage of my weakened state?  I warn you, I’m even more dangerous once I’ve got my own energon in my intakes!”

“I don’t doubt that.”  Rung tried not to encourage him, since with his optical glass removed, he knew that the heliframe would have trouble distinguishing him from Fortress Maximus.  Instead, he patted the nearest pincer.  “Cosmos was worried about you.  I told him you would be fine, but perhaps you could verify that yourself, once you’ve been repaired.”

The only response was a non-committal noise (which sounded somewhat akin to the mechanical version of a raspberry), and a shrug of Whirl’s shoulders.  Other peoples’ opinions were not something held in very high esteem by the former Wrecker.

“So, if you’re not plotting to kill me, what are you after?” With practiced ease, the blue frame rolled onto his side and propped his helm up with one arm.  The other attempted to poke Rung, possibly in the chest, but it ended up hovering over his head.  “If you came all the way over here, risking flying wrenches and unnecessary surgery, you’ve gotta want something.”

Every once in a while, the therapist was offered a reminder that Whirl didn’t simply survive the war through his preferred methods of pure luck and massive explosive ordinance; there was a piercingly intelligent mech underneath the millennia of damage, if you dug deep enough to find it.  Progress through their sessions was slow at best, but whenever a flicker emerged, it felt like a personal victory.

Rung had been hoping for a chance to speak to Whirl, somewhere outside the confines and context of his office.  Now he had the opportunity.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said simply, smiling despite knowing there was no way for Whirl to see it, “for your help during the… situation with Fortress Maximus.”

“‘Help’?  I did all the work!”  A brief attempt at sitting up properly almost resulted in a heliframe tumbling off the medical berth, so he settled for flopping down onto his back instead.  “Kept him from shooting you, didn’t I?  What were you planning to do, let him rip off the rest of your fingers until he got bored and wandered off?”

One pincer clacked together as Whirl pretended to contemplate it.  The fact that he moved it right up against his optic, then as far away as he could reach, somewhat ruined the effect he was likely going for.

“…  You’ve got a lot of fingers, though. You never know; it might’ve worked.”

The best description Rung had ever heard of the mech in front of him hadn’t come through professional channels.  He’d overheard it in the Lost Light’s corridors, escaping a knot of mechs gathered against one wall, and to his disappointment he’d never been able to pinpoint who among them had been the one to voice it.  It was simply this: Whirl had no filter between mind and voice.  Grasping this fact might not have made a great difference in terms of general goodwill, but understanding the heliframe became just the tiniest bit easier.  The thoughts that came out of his vocalizer might not be pleasant, but most of the time, they also weren’t meant as serious commentary.

“Thank you, in either case.”

“Pfft.”  The glassless stare, unrestrained golden glow flickering and flaring out of the optical channel, reminded the therapist rather forcefully of the physical effects of Fort Max’s actions toward Whirl.  He had nearly had his helm crushed in, and whether it was intentional or not, his distractions had kept Rung safe in the face of the former warden’s anger.

“I…”  Hesitation from the normally self-assured little mech made the heliframe blink. “I didn’t realize you considered me a friend.”

Apparently that wasn’t what Whirl was expecting, because even with no internalized thoughts, it took him several seconds to reply.

“Well, duh.  I’ve met you, and I haven’t killed you.  Yet, I mean.”  One arm waved in the air, propeller slowly turning when the angle of motion caught it.  “And you haven’t tried to kill me either… that I know about.  People usually aren’t too subtle about that.”

When he didn’t get an immediate answer, he rolled over onto one side again.  His helm, either intentionally or otherwise, ended up about two inches from Rung’s face.

“What?  It’s not complicated.”

“No,” replied the therapist, who was trying very hard not to take a step back.  Whirl wasn't to blame for the fact that he couldn’t see, though it might have been partially his fault that very few individuals wanted to find themselves that far inside his personal space.  “I suppose it isn’t.”

“People always make things complicated,” Whirl grumbled.  “Like Cyclonus.  He keeps talking about how he’s planning to kill me, and I haven’t even done anything to him lately!  Stupid horn-head, doesn’t know how to let things go…”

Ratchet came back a few moments later, scowling at everything and everyone (deep-seated fear of attachment and loss, Rung noted, caused him to push everyone away), and announced that the new part would need to be custom-made…a process which would take several hours.  The former Wrecker’s loud complaints went ignored as the CMO stalked off, barely noticing the therapist standing a few feet away.  It was all right.  He was used to it.

“Hours!”  Pincers drew wild arcs in the air, before crashing back to the berth dramatically.  “And I’ve got to stay here the whole time!  Can’t they just sedate me or kill me or something?”

“Whirl…”

“You’re doing the eyebrow thing at me, aren’t you.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, staring at Rung despite the inability to see more than an orange blob; maybe not even that much.  Still, the therapist stopped frowning in disapproval, and patted the nearest arm again.

“Perhaps you should recharge.  You can set the chronometer, or one of the staff will wake you-”

“Recharge in a medbay?  Not likely!”  Surprisingly, Whirl lowered his voice, leaning forward conspiratorially.  “That’s how they get you, you know.  Wait until you’re recharging… then BAM!”

The loud smack of metal on metal made Rung jump, and though the heliframe might not have been able to see it properly, he laughed anyway.

“That’s how I took out Killmaster.  You’ve heard of him, yeah?  Everyone has.”

“I believe so…  He used a wand.”  The therapist nodded, before remembering that Whirl wouldn’t be able to see it.  In all honesty, he wasn’t sure whether this was quite the subject to be discussing in the medbay, but any sign of openness from the former Wrecker was rare, and stifling it might do more harm than good.

“That’s the one,” the heliframe replied warmly, using a tone most associated with well-loved memories.  “I never did find out why he was in that medical facility, but whatever it was, it must’ve been good…  Maybe I could’ve asked, but the doctors weren’t real conversational.  Too busy shooting at me.  But I showed them!  Only took three tries to find him; they had him locked up behind some real secure doors…  Heh, ‘secure’ is a relative term.  I made quick work of those-”

While Whirl was talking, Rung managed to retrieve a small chair and carry it back to the berthside.  He had a feeling he was going to need a seat, by the time his patient was finished being repaired.


	4. Sweet Nothings 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Rodimus; Drift; Ratchet; Swerve; intoxication; ridiculous flirting; unnecessary pet names

"DRIFT!"

Rodimus leaned over his table with his megawatt smile on in full force.  No one could resist that grin for long, and Drift was no exception, even from halfway across the bar.  He temporarily put aside the drink order he'd been about to give Swerve, and lifted a hand to wave at the captain of the Lost Light.

"Drift!"  Acknowledgement was apparently equated with encouragement.  "You're my moons and stars!"

Rodimus hadn't been on the bridge for hours, and judging by the fact that he was sitting in front of several empty glasses, he'd been here for a while...  The only person sitting with him was Ratchet, who looked slightly more unimpressed than usual.

"Driiiift!"

He held up a finger before turning back to Swerve, who by now was wearing a disproportionately large smile of his own, but found himself interrupted yet again.

"Come oooon!"

Ratchet had finished rolling his eyes before Drift turned around again, but the angle of his helm and the fact that he pushed himself away from the table expressed all the disdain necessary.  Rodimus, as expected, either didn't notice or care.

"You're my eye of the storm!"

It was a game, one that had been going on for a number of days.  The captain had started it, though Drift couldn't remember why; the 'how' had been much clearer.  He'd been working on something or other on the bridge, when Rodimus had leaned out over the balcony above.  It was unusual for him to do anything or go anywhere that wasn’t an effort to draw attention to himself, which made people forget that before joining the Autobot cause, he was an expert in sneaking through hostile cities unnoticed.  Working with explosives gave one a very light touch, and a very light step, which were useful in sneaking up on people… or an entire room full of people, as the case happened to be.

"Drift!"  The hands cupped around his mouth had done nothing to hide the smile from the dozen Autobots whose heads shot up.  "You light up my life!"

Even after the laughter had died down, Rodimus was still grinning, and he gestured for his third in command to join him.  Drift hadn't known what to make of it, then; he'd had to corner the captain later and ask what that was all about.

"It got your attention," he replied, smile as brilliant as ever.  “Would you have noticed, if I just called your name?”

He would have, but the amusement in Rodimus’ optics had been enough to keep him from voicing the thought aloud.

That had been the end of that, or so he'd thought. A few days later, Drift was assigned to lead a minor scouting party to the surface of some dull organic planet.  It was a routine mission, but he hadn't gotten a corridor away from the bridge before Rodimus had come running after him.

"Hey!  You're a thousand dancing sunrises!"

It turned out Drift had just forgotten a couple datapads with additional information for the rest of the team, but Rodimus came along to the shuttle anyway, charging everyone to full power with his infectious glowing grin.

That was when he’d decided that turnabout was fair play.  The next time he’d needed the captain’s attention, he hadn’t bothered crossing the room to get it.

“Rodimus!”  Considering the amount of noise in the room, it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t even look up.  “Your optics outshine Crystal City!”

The look on the captain’s face when he jumped up made the crew’s roars worthwhile.  And when Rodimus had joined their laughing, Drift was certain he’d done the right thing.

They started using it constantly, to grab the other’s attention, to call them over, or even when crossing paths in the corridors.  Harmless fun, and it seemed to have a positive effect on the crew; he’d heard Trailbreaker yelling after Hoist, calling him his ‘knight in verdant armour’, and while Chromedome seemed more reticent, Rewind had no problems calling him half a dozen overly ornate nicknames in public.  It improved morale, brightened auras, and helped clear the air, because no one could be angry or sorrowful when someone ran through the room chasing someone described as ‘more elegant than the spires of Vos’.

Particularly when that individual happened to be Cosmos.

But right now, a certain flame-coloured mech was all but draped across his table, demanding a response with waving hands.  Drift resisted the urge to roll his own optics, since Ratchet had most certainly covered that territory before vacating the premises.

“You’re my aurora over lakes of fire!”

“Lantern that keeps the darkness at bay,” he finally called back, grabbing the drink Swerve had poured him and making his way across the room.  The captain’s face had lit up as soon as he got his reply, and he dragged himself off the metal slab to make more room for his third in command.  Drift had barely settled into the recently vacated chair before an arm was slung around his pauldrons, and he could pretend that the megawatt smile was only for him.


	5. Exteriors 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Rung; Fortress Maximus; Swerve; cramped living conditions; misbehaving therapy patients; references to past violence

While it was undeniably nice to be back in a hab-suite again, instead of the brig, Fort Max had to admit that there were some things about the room that frustrated him. The lack of space was one: because he’d been brought on board after being resuscitated at Delphi, there hadn’t been many unoccupied suites left.  Unsurprisingly, the largest had been claimed long before he arrived. His frame type meant that an oversized recharge slab was necessary, which left precious little remaining space for things like standing, walking, and sitting.

Swerve had followed him back to the suite one evening, chattering away as he always did, and only broke off the conversation when he saw the edge of the massive slab beyond the door. It touched three of the room’s walls, leaving just enough space for the workstation on the fourth, and as a consequence jutted out several inches into the doorframe.

“Wow!” The minibot had laughed, accenting the sound with a sweep of his hands. “They’ve really got you jammed in there! Couldn’t find any bigger rooms, huh?”

“Unfortunately not,” he’d said neutrally, processors swimming from the effects of an unending stream of loud prattle.

“Heh, guess you won’t be getting a roommate.” Something flickered across the tiny mech’s faceplates, but it was gone before Max could interpret what it might have been. “Too bad for you! But hey, drop by my bar sometime! It’s a great place to relax, and you look like you need it!”

What he’d needed then, and still needed now, was somewhere he could be _away_ from the ship’s other inhabitants, not thrown in with them. He hadn’t voiced the thought, and made a short farewell before going inside and locking the door behind him. As a safety measure, not an insult.  
It was only later on upon overhearing a conversation in the corridors that he discovered Swerve was on an apparently unending quest someone to share a suite with.

While he appreciated having dodged that particular issue, it didn’t mean he enjoyed being forced to spend hours sitting on the berth, just because he didn’t feel like dealing with the rest of the crew. More frustrating still was the fact that nothing in the room was scaled to work for someone his size; the shutters on the window were inoperable, since he’d accidentally broken off the activation switch on his first attempt to open them, and the computer console featured a frustratingly small keyboard.

He may have visited Swerve’s bar, not only to act like he appreciated the owner’s invitation, but to get his hands on one of the available metal straws. Using it as a stylus, Max could poke the workstation’s buttons… albeit in very slow fashion.

No thought had been given to how ridiculous this might look to outsiders, until the door chime sounded. Fort Max started slightly, before leaning over and pressing the lock panel with one digit.  He didn’t even need to move from his seat.

On one side of the door was a small orange mech wearing a placid smile, both hands folded behind his back. On the other, a hunched tank-frame seated on a recharge slab with one hand hovering next to the door controls, and the other holding a mangled straw over the computer console.

“Fortress Maximus.”

“… Hello,” he responded eloquently, mentally chiding himself for having, once again, forgotten his own therapist’s name. Did he have some kind of processor block that kept it from sinking in? It was downright embarrassing.

“You’re late for your appointment,” Rung said quietly, because there was really no other adjective suitable for describing his voice. Even when upset (and Max knew how he sounded when upset, Primus forgive him), no one would describe him as loud. But that didn’t mean his words couldn’t carry weight, and his core tweaked uncomfortably at the words. A quick check of his chronometer proved that yes, indeed, he had missed the session entirely.

“I’m sorry.” An apology was immediate. Imperative. “I… guess I lost track of time.”

“It’s quite all right.”

That was the kind of thing a therapist was supposed to say. Soft, inane, accepting words, designed to be as non-confrontational as possible. Soldiers laughed at that sort of behaviour, niceties couching your true intentions, language as a barrier to communication and understanding.

But somehow, he wanted to believe Rung when he said it. It was all right. It would be all right.  
“I was concerned that something might have been the matter,” he continued, blue-green optics brightening slightly as he spoke. “I’m glad to see that wasn’t the case.”

If Max had felt a twinge of discomfort before, what he felt now was more akin to a punch in the lateral flexors. The diminutive therapist had been worried about _him_. The same mech who’d attacked him, held him hostage at cannon-point, ripped his thumb off, and very nearly brought about his death.  He’d apologized afterward, when he’d regained his senses and Rung had regained his head, but that didn’t mean he deserved that kind of concern.

“May I come in?”

Further contrition had been on the tip of Fort Max’s vocalizers, but he swallowed it when the mech spoke again. He nodded before shifting a little further down the edge of the berth… Only a little, because there really wasn’t that much further he could go, which meant that Rung managed to take a scant few steps into the room. He took in everything with a silent sweep of his optics, but the downward arch of expressive eyebrows told of was going to be said before the words came out.

“This room is far too small for you.”

“It’s all right,” the former warden shrugged, glancing at the weld-seams on the corridor wall. They’d had to remove most of it, to fit the recharge slab in. “Better than the brig.”

“Max.” The gentle frown was on him now, and he suddenly couldn’t meet those optics with his own. “‘Better than the brig’ is not a measurement of what should be acceptable. You are a member of the crew, not a prisoner, and deserve the same consideration as everyone else.”

He dipped his head, gaze sliding from the wall to his knees. There was nothing he could say to that, not to Rung, because the therapist would know exactly how to turn his words around and use them to lance the wound they came from. It wasn’t something he wanted to reopen right now.

Somehow, the orange mech knew. He always seemed to know, whether he could read minds, or just read people, because he turned his attention elsewhere. Max hadn’t seen his visitor take in the mangled piece of tubing in his hand, but when he turned away to look at the computer screen, he resisted the urge to jump up and get in the way. The search he’d very slowly been performing was still on the screen.

_Garrus-9 crew manifest_

It would have been impossible for anyone to miss the tension in Fort Max’s frame, even if they weren’t a trained psychologist. He sat in perfect stillness as Rung looked over the console, contemplating it with the same pleasant neutrality that seemed to compose the entirety of the therapist’s being. That expression didn’t shift when he glanced at the former warden’s clenched fists, or when he turned to look up at his face.

“Would you like some help?” He unfolded his hands from behind his back, small and slim and basic, holding them out palms-up. “Since this console isn’t suited for someone your size.”

Max wanted to say no. _It’s not necessary_ , he wanted to say, _you don’t have to_. But Rung would just smile politely, because he knew it wasn’t a matter of necessity; he wanted to help, or else he wouldn’t have offered. Max wanted to say this was personal, that he wanted to deal with it on his own… but that wouldn’t work either. The whole purpose of these sessions, including the one he’d just missed, was to ensure that he wouldn’t be alone in the face of it.

Instead, what ended up leaving his vocalizer was, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“This is your space, Max.” The therapist smiled his little smile, optics alight. “I am just a set of console-scaled digits.”

Max wanted to say no. _I think we both know you’re a lot more than that_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he just nodded, bending one of his legs out of the way so Rung could access the chair in front of the workstation.


	6. Three's A Crowd 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Rewind, Swerve, Tailgate, excessive drinking, tiny angry things, mentions of domestic disputes

There might be a great deal of people on board the Lost Light, displaying more personality traits and flaws than the most dedicated could catalogue, but general consensus remained on one subject: Rewind was the most personable.  He was small and bright and cheerful, and somehow he managed to make everyone like him; considering the ship’s inhabitants, this was an impressive feat indeed.

The crew was so used to seeing him as the little vocal minibot that when he stormed into Swerve’s and threw himself up onto a bar stool without so much as a greeting to anyone, it went almost unnoticed because they simply didn’t recognize him.

Rewind didn’t wait for a greeting from the barkeep.

“Give me a shot of engex.”

“Uh...”  Swerve blinked once, looked over the slouched black-and-white frame, and decided not to ask.  “Coming right up.”

The liquid didn’t have a chance to stop sloshing before Rewind grabbed the glass.  His mask snapped open, and he downed the shot in one go before slamming the miniature cube back down onto the countertop.

“Yeah, going to need more of those.”

“How many more...?”

“Four- no, five.  Make it five.  Or six.  Set me up; I’ll tell you when to stop.”

This was most definitely not typical behaviour from the diminutive archivist.  Engex was hard on the systems of mechs their size in the first place, and he’d just ordered enough to give the average frontliner a good buzz.

“Are you sure?”  As much as he appreciated the business, and the credits, the bartender felt something tugging at his mind.  He suspected it was what other people called a conscience.  “Chromedome’s not going to like-”

“ _Chromedome?_ ”

That one word, two syllables spat with irritation that no one would have expected from the friendly mech, told Swerve everything he needed to know.  They’d been fighting again, and from the sounds of things, Rewind’s conjunx had really managed to push his buttons this time.  He wondered what could have happened; what would torque off someone who was normally so amicable?  It would have made a great subject for discussion with the customers… except Rewind was sitting right here, and from the look on his faceplates, theorizing about his relationships might not be the most prudent course of action at the moment.

“Who cares what _he_ thinks?”

“You do… don’t you?”

Rewind looked down immediately, but Swerve had to lean over in order to see who’d spoken, standing below his line of sight in front of the bar.  None other than Tailgate, who was staring up at the archivist with wide and glowing optics, visor incapable of hiding his confusion.

While he climbed up to take a nearby seat, the archivist used the opportunity to down a second shot of engex.

“Not today, I don’t,” he muttered.


	7. Three's A Crowd 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Skids, Rung, Rewind, Swerve, Tailgate, Cyclonus, Sunstreaker, Bob, people-watching, eyebrows, past slavery, and the author attempting to have a headcanon

Skills, sports, games; those were boring, especially when you could learn a new one in a matter of days.  Sometimes even hours.  But people?  People were interesting.  Just when you thought you had them all figured out, they would do something new and surprise you.  That was why Skids loved to watch the crew, whether it was on deck, in the corridors, or, like today, by sitting in the _Lost Light’s_ bar.  It was a great place to see mechs at their most casual, either by the company or the atmosphere.

And he wasn’t alone.  It hadn’t taken long for him to realize he wasn’t the only one on the ship with this particular hobby, since watching people made it easier to notice when you were among those being watched.  By unspoken mutual agreement, the theoretician and the therapist began sharing a table, if only so they weren’t taking up space in the other’s field of view.  Sometimes they would have quiet discussions, comparing observations, but most of the time was spent in silence.

Relative silence.  This was the _Lost Light_ , after all.

Tonight was proving unusually educational, even by his standards.  Rewind had come in like a thunderstorm, albeit a very small one, and ordered what was apparently an unusual amount of drinks; Swerve’s expressive face said that much.  Then Tailgate became involved, having temporarily given up his attempts at socializing with the ever-dour Cyclonus, and the three minibots were soon clustered together in conversation.

That in itself wasn’t unusual.  What drew Skids’ attention was the archivist’s body language: in five minutes, he’d gone from bristling with temper to something almost like his normal pleasant attitude.  In less than twenty, half the bar’s population had gathered around to watch him project a series of old advertisements on one of the nearby walls, laughing and jostling one another as they shared recollections and remembrances.  Rewind was in the middle, asking questions, taking requests, and avidly encouraging their storytelling.  It was as though he’d never been angry at all.

“Hey, eyebrows.”  Rung frowned at him ever so slightly, and watching the aforementioned arches furrow was exactly the reason he’d said it.  He just grinned, and flicked a hand in the direction of the crowd.  “What do you see?”

Wrapping his digits a little more tightly around the mug of energon he’d been nursing, the therapist cast careful optics over the scene.  There was a lot going on, enough that Skids briefly wished he had a camera like Rewind’s, just so he could record it and watch again later.  It was hard to tell where Rung was looking, or who might catch his attention, but after a moment he glanced back at the larger blue mech.

“Quite a few things,” he replied, expression smoothing out into gentle curiosity.  “What do you see, Skids?”

The theoretician wouldn’t have asked if there wasn’t something he wanted to point out.  There was Sunstreaker, and the odd little pet Insecticon he positively lavished with attention; there was Cyclonus, still sitting with his back to the crowd, but occasionally turning his head just enough to see the projected images; there was Swerve, who had set up six shots of engex on the bar in front of the little archivist, but was now carefully sneaking them back into the distiller, leaving empty glasses behind as though to imply that their contents had already been ingested.

And then there was Rewind, who had been torqued off enough to order that many drinks only a few minutes ago.  Now he was all enthusiasm and glowing optics, and it wasn’t the engex that was responsible.  What was it that could make someone’s attitude change that quickly?  He was a hard enough mech to upset in the first place, which meant the cause had to have been Chromedome; no one else could push the amiable minibot’s buttons the way his conjunx could.  But while the mnemosurgeon would sulk on his own after their arguments, Rewind consistently jumped into public spaces instead.  It could have been that he fed off of the social energy, refueling himself with the ship’s social life after being drained by their squabbles…

But that’s not what Skids saw.

While people could overcome their pasts, life left marks.  The longer, harder, and deeper the experiences, the greater effect they left behind on both body and mind.  The Functionalists might be gone, but they were far from forgotten, especially by those once held strongest in their grip.

Rewind was old.  He was small, without armour or inbuilt weapons.  He was physically weaker than practically everyone else on the ship barring, perhaps, the other minibots.  He was forced to rely on those around him during the war, which was why he had an exemption from combat… Not that he ever used it.

But more than that, Rewind had been a slave.  Dependant on others, not just to protect him, but for everything, including his own life: the Disposable class had scarcely been considered alive at all, and it left them subject to the whims and wishes of anyone with enough credits to own one.  A Disposable could be snuffed with scarcely a thought for more than what would be bought to replace them.  Those who survived did so because they learned how to make themselves useful.  Likeable.  Valuable.  Worth expending time and money on, even when they could just be tossed aside and replaced with a newer model.

The archivist might be free now, an appreciated and respected member of the Autobots, but the mindset remained.  When the most important individual in Rewind’s life found him displeasing, he surrounded himself with those who didn’t; people who valued him, who would support him if he needed it.  He had to prove, to reassure himself, that he wasn’t going to be discarded.

“Survival instincts,” Skids said simply, and took a sip of his own drink.


	8. The Mirror 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Rodimus; Drift; scapegoats; mirror-babies; carefully constructed personas; aftershocks of Overlord

_“I’m not doing it for you.”_

Was this how ‘ironic’ was supposed to feel?

He was still sitting on the floor of his office, arms around the knees tucked beneath his chin.  Drift was standing, looking stupidly dramatic, framed by the light from the door, like a… like something sent by a higher power.  Something that had earned the long dark shadows clinging to his frame like a second set of plating, which somehow only managed to make the rest of him look brighter.  Whiter.  Cleaner.

Certainly cleaner than the captain, with scratched paint and debris everywhere, two of his barrels still leaking trace amounts of smoke.

They stared at each other in silence, because the words had already been spoken.  He badly, desperately, wanted Drift to pipe up and offer one of his ludicrous platitudes; something about words getting in the way of meaning, or how silence was the only true form of communication.

Flaky Drift.  Laughable Drift.  Obsessively spiritual Drift.

His best friend, Drift.

He was the captain.  He was responsible.  It was him who had brought this, him who had failed.  Him the crew was screaming for, though they didn’t yet realize it.  Rung, calm and gentle, had come to try and speak to him, but not even the therapist knew.  He thought these blasts, the craters in the energon-pink walls and floor, were brought about by his ego.

That was the best proof of all, wasn’t it?  That he really had accomplished what he’d set out to do.  Everyone saw that now… the great big mech, the glowing figure, the leader.  Rodimus.  Just Rodimus.  No more Rodimus-not-Hot-Rod.

This was the part where he suddenly realized it made no difference at all.  Whether they saw or not, whether they believed in him or not, whether he believed in himself.  People had died.  Again.  His crew, under his watch, his responsibility.   The flames had been from weapons fire, and the heavy thuds were bodies hitting the floors and walls, and the hot rush of air had been Overlord’s breath, but it all boiled down to the same thing.

He tried, tried hard, because the crew had believed in him and placed trust in him, because he’d been carrying half of the _Matrix of Leadership_ , given to him by _Optimus Prime_ , and if that wasn’t enough to finally make him worthy then he didn’t know what would.

It wasn’t enough.  He was responsible, again.  He’d failed, again.  He’d cost lives, again.  He had the list:  Pipes, Rewind, Tripodeca, Magnus…

Now, Drift.

His third in command didn’t deserve that.  If he was responsible, he had to go all the way.  Letting someone else take the fall, someone who had trusted in him, not just the figure standing at the forefront of the charge…

He couldn’t take it, and Drift knew.  That’s why he’d said what he said.  And Rodimus didn’t have words to make it better, to make things right, to change them around to the way they should be.

That was why they said nothing, Rodimus crouched against the wall, Drift framed in the light.

_“I’m doing it for everyone else.”_


	9. The Mirror 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contents include:** Drift; Rodimus; mirror-babies; angst; inappropriate comfort-flirting; sports car headcanons

Which of them had realized it first, he didn’t know.  There’s been something immediately, but it had still taken time to put the pieces together.  Pieces of each other.  Pieces of the truth: that they were two of a kind, a matching pair.  It wasn’t on the surface, which must have been why no one else seemed to know.  Ultra Magnus certainly didn’t get it, no matter how much time he spent trying to get between them; the more he tried to isolate Drift, keeping him from ‘exerting a negative influence’ on Rodimus, the tighter they wedged themselves together.

They were sports cars.  They understood.

People talked about flyers, about seekers, like they were a different species.  All their supposed quirks, their strange ways, their need to stick together…  The truth was that every frame type had their own facets that remained through all but the most traumatic of changes.  Flyers needed freedom.  Trucks were strong and steady.  Scientific frames and their methodical precision.

And sports cars?  They drove.  They drove fast and drove far, and when they couldn’t drive they would run.  Racers like Blurr were the most well-known, and the most extreme, but every speeder felt the need to leave everything behind in the dust.

Rodimus was sitting on the floor of his destroyed office, arms around his knees, optics barely peeking over smoke-stained chrome exhaust pipes.  A fearful mech, smudged with soot and scratched from fighting was cowering among debris.  Trapped, not knowing where the next blow would come from, and lacking anyone to turn to.  There would be no outstretched hands, no offers of comfort or aid, once those who walked by saw who and what was staring back at them.

Except Drift.  All he could see was himself.

They were not two halves of a whole.  They didn’t fill in each other’s missing places, or provide some long-lost sense of completion the other didn’t know they lacked.  What they were was a mirror: one could reach out and touch the other without fear, because they could see exactly where the injuries were.  They could be anything and anyone they wanted, but the other would always know.  They could lean on each other, hold one another up, and keep going together because they could see where the other would stumble.  They were the same, on deep and dirty levels that couldn’t bear to be brought to light; they could sit together in the dark, run hands through the empty spaces, and never catch a digit on the razors hidden there.

They were both running, and praying to all the deities above and below that the thing they fled from wouldn’t catch up.

Rodimus’ had.  The monster was at the door, ready and waiting to tear him apart, and Drift couldn’t let it.  Not just because he had a vision, because Vector Sigma had shown him how critically important this one mech was going to be.  He could no more turn his back on Rodimus than he could himself, because ignoring what was right in front of his face meant casting aside everything that had already been given to him; the sacrifices made by others, to bring that broken, homeless leaker to this time and this place. 

In his spark, he knew there was one more reason, nestled in the deepest recesses New Crystal City had been unable to purge.  He needed his captain, his  friend to survive, because he needed to know that he could, too.

Drift had cast his faith in with fate, destiny, the Guiding Hand, in everything that gave him a reason to believe that this all wasn’t one big joke waiting to collapse in on itself.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to admit how much of that might have shifted focus, ever so slightly, from abstract words to something more… concrete.

Something that stared back at him.  A face in a broken mirror.

He shifted his weight, forcing himself to relax.  He needed to ease the tension in the room, and between his audials.

“My dawn that breaks the night.”

Rodimus’ optics went momentarily bright and he let out a noise; almost a laugh, though a startled one.  It tipped his head back by a few degrees, but when he brought it back down, he turned away from his third in command, and the light of the open door.

“Seriously?”  His voice was a strange combination of dull and oversharp, but it was still an improvement over complete muteness.  “Now?”

Drift smiled, because it came so much easier than relaxing further, and palmed the nearby command panel so the door swung shut.  With nothing but their optics to light the room, he crouched down.

“Spear of lightning parting the storm clouds,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough so that Rodimus wouldn’t turn further.  It didn’t matter that the room was dark, when they could feel each other.  “Signaltower over the Sea of Rust.”

Another sound that was close to laughter, and close to breaking.  Digits ghosted over Drift’s arms and he reached out in return, rocking forward onto his knees and into the press of an overheated embrace.  They couldn’t hurt each other, because they knew just where to touch.  The only pain came from within.


End file.
